“But . . . why? What’s the point?” Tony tilted his head toward the house. “What do you think the old folks are talking about?”
“They’ve gotta be worried,” Stella said. “Real worried. But not one of them ever does anything!” She stomped her foot on the rough wooden step.
“But, Stella, what can they do? They got no power. No money. Like my daddy says, it’s hard to live like there’s a boot on your back every second of your life.” He reached down for a handful of pebbles and flung them into the night. A clatter immediately followed—he had a good arm as well as being fast—those pebbles had reached the front fence.
“Yeah, but your daddy got out,” Stella ventured. “He went to college and now he’s a doctor.”
Because he was the only Negro doctor for two hundred miles, Tony’s father delivered babies, gave tonics and cough medicine for head colds, and patched up scratches, cuts, and burns. He stayed busy seven days a week.
“Yeah, he did. But he’s told me more than enough stories about how bad he was treated while he was getting his training. They made him empty the bedpans and clean up the blood on the floor after a surgery. None of the other interns had to do that. They gave him broken equipment and outdated books, and only let him treat colored folk.”
Stella tucked her toes under the edge of her blanket. “My papa always tells me we gotta be twice as smart to get half as much,” she told Tony with a frown.
Tony’s voice grew tight. “And even after all this time, my daddy’s still not allowed to treat white patients. Like their diseases are high class or something.” He whipped more stones after the first ones. “And Dr. Packard, the white doctor—he won’t even lay a hand on a black patient, even if they’re dyin’!” he added.
“Oh, he’ll lay a hand when he wants to.” Stella’s voice went harsh.
“How do you mean?” Tony asked, wiping his hands on his pants.
“When I was five, Dr. Packard, well, he slapped me—hard—right across my face. I can still remember, it hurt so bad.”
“He did? But why?”
“Remember that game, ‘Step on a crack, break your mother’s back’?”
“Yeah, you jump over the cracks in the sidewalk.”
“Well, I was with Mama and we were walking down Main Street, heading to Mrs. Cooper’s candy store—I was so happy! I was concentrating on the sidewalk, doing my jumps, and I didn’t see Dr. Packard. I accidentally stepped on his shoe and got some mud on it.”
Tony sucked in his breath. “You didn’t!”
“Yep. I did. I apologized over and over, and so did my mother. She even bent down to wipe off the mud with her handkerchief. But he pushed my mom away—she almost fell—and then he reached down and whomped me as hard as he could. I remember his green eyes as he sneered at me. Then he called me stupid and careless and some other stuff I’m not gonna repeat, and he walked away.”
Tony exhaled hard, angry. “Gosh, Stella. So whadja do?”
“I started crying. Worse than that—Mama cried. And there was nothing that either of us could do except go home. And I never did get any candy.”
Now she grabbed up some of the pebbles and flung them across the yard. No clatter. But the voices inside were getting louder, so maybe she just didn’t hear it.
Dusty raised his head and growled softly. “Settle down, settle down, now,” Stella whispered, stroking the dog’s back. “Everything’s gonna be okay, boy.”
But she wasn’t sure about that at all.
4
Nailing Jelly to a Tree
The meeting was breaking up just as Stella decided she and Tony were about to surely freeze to death. She opened the front door hesitantly to the smell of tobacco and sweat and strong coffee. The neighbor men, a good twenty of them, were saying good-bye, clapping one another on the back, making their way out. Roosters had begun crowing up and down the road. No adult would be going back to sleep that morning.
Stella said bye to Tony and grabbed a broom without being told. Sweeping stray ashes from the hearth, beating at the stones, she was so rough that shards of corn husk broke from the broom’s bottom.
Her mother took the broom from Stella’s hands. “You been up half the night, honeygirl,” she said gently. “Go lie down for an hour before school.”
Stella started to protest, but a firm push from her mother changed her mind. Her pillow was pancake flat, so she gave it a shake, plumped it up, and laid her head down, suddenly exhausted. Scooching her knees up, she gazed at the newspaper-covered wall next to her bed. Most every plank of pine wood inside the house was covered with old newspapers. Newsy decoration, Mama called it. The pages were glued on with wood paste and randomly selected: a wall might sport an ad for medicine next to an article on the price of eggs. As the pages yellowed or peeled, Mama slapped fresh ones up. Stella could not remember when she wasn’t surrounded by newsprint.
Tonight she reread a piece about what the paper called a crime wave—three robberies—which was next to a story about a college debate team and their success. It seemed like only seconds had passed when she woke with a start as her mother tickled her nose with a feather.
“Thought you weren’t sleepy,” Mama teased. “You been down for almost two hours! Go get washed—it will be time to leave directly.”
Stella sat up, and her mother pulled her close.
“It’s gonna be all right,” her mother whispered as she smoothed down Stella’s hair.
But Stella felt the tension in her mother’s arms, and she knew that in reality, fear hugged them both.
“Golly, the outhouse sure is cold this mornin’!” Jojo cried out as he burst in through the front door.
“Well, don’t bring the cold in here with you, boy,” Mama cried out, releasing Stella. “Shut that door!”
“Yes’m,” Jojo said, slamming it behind him as he hurried to the fireplace.
“Stella,” Mama said. “Remember to feed the chickens. And see if we got some eggs. Get a move on now.”
Stella opened her mouth to complain, to ask why Jojo couldn’t help, but a dagger glance from her mother shut her up real quick. She gave the pump handle a few quick jerks, hurriedly splashed water on her face, then headed over to the barn, grabbing the feed sack that hung on the fence as she went. In it was some barley, a little sand for grit, bread crumbs, cornmeal, diced apple peels, and sometimes even bugs or worms. The chickens were always eager for whatever Stella tossed—worms and all. Actually, she thought they were pretty rude, pushing one another out of the way to grab the best morsels. She found three fresh eggs and hightailed it back to the warmth of the house.
Waiting for her on the table was hot-water corn bread smeared with the apple preserves. Stella grinned—Mama made the best apple preserves! Jojo was slurping a bowl of cornmeal mush. Stella could smell onions simmering in the big dented pot on the stove, supper already in progress.
“I saved the last of the preserves for you,” Jojo announced.
“Thanks,” Stella replied, surprised at his generosity. She munched on the warm, golden-fried bread. Nobody made corn bread as good as Mama.
Papa sipped from a mug of coffee, reading one of his three newspapers. “Gotta know what’s goin’ on in the world,” he always reminded Stella when she’d ask why one paper wasn’t enough.
The front page of the Carolina Times had a story about a Negro college football coach who’d led his team to victory, and another about unfair treatment of colored workers in Raleigh. Sometimes that paper ran articles about Negroes who were responsible for new inventions or discoveries. Those always made Stella sit up a little taller.
She thought about the masthead of that paper. Its motto was “The Truth Unbridled.” Stella liked that. Truth. On horseback. Without a saddle or bridle to hold the animal back.
“Can I see one of the other papers, Papa?” she asked, licking her hands free of jelly, glancing at the Rutherford County News and the Forest City Courier.
“Sure,” her father said, pushing them her way without l
ooking up. “Lots of politics and people this week.”
Stella couldn’t remember when she’d started liking reading the news, but maybe it was because she lived in such a small speck of a town, and she liked how the newspaper helped her feel like she was part of something bigger. Maybe it was because the words on the walls had always been there. She slid both papers closer, taking in events that had happened all over the country—to white people. Colored people were rarely mentioned in those two newspapers. In a curling, fading copy of the Forest City Courier glued on the back wall was an article about the local literary club who discussed “The Negro in Literature” at one of their meetings. It read, “This is a topic about which the average individual knows very little.” Stella shook her head every time her gaze fell on that one.
Now, she pushed the papers away. “Papa?”
“Mmm?” he murmured, still reading.
“You think any of the papers will write about the Klan rally last night?” she asked.
Now he looked up. “Oh Lord, no, child. First of all, it was so late, maybe nobody else even saw it. But even if someone had, the white papers will never admit to it happening, and our paper would likely be forced out of business.” He gave the page he was holding a shake and added ominously, “Or worse.”
“I thought the Negro paper believed in reporting the truth,” Stella pressed, frowning.
“They believe more in staying alive—” her mother began.
But her father broke in. “Never be afraid to be honest and stand up for what is right, Stella,” he said pointedly. “Just remember to balance your courage with wisdom.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Catching the Klan is kinda like nailing jelly to a tree,” he explained. “You work real hard, and what do you have to show for it? It just slips down the bark. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Papa.” She understood, but she wasn’t sure she believed everything he said.
Mama filled Papa’s mug back up. “It’s chilly out there, Jonah,” she said, deliberately changing the subject, Stella thought. “The children are gonna need shoes soon.”
Papa blew on the coffee. “They’ll be fine. When I was a kid, I never wore shoes. Made me tough. ’Sides, I’ve got lots more on my mind today than barefoot children.”
Stella saw her mother’s eyes narrow, but she switched subjects again. “Jojo, Stella, you two get on out of here. Ain’t none of the other younguns got shoes neither, so don’t you worry at all about that. If you run to school, you’ll stay warm. Just be sure to sit by the stove in the schoolroom when you get there.”
Stella looked down at her dirty toenails and rusty-looking feet. Shoes might be nice, but she knew those feet could outrun just about anybody in Bumblebee. Well, anybody but Tony Hawkins. And that was good enough for now.
5
Quit that Skylarkin’!
As Stella and Jojo got their jackets and lunch pails, their mother warned, “Y’all be careful, you hear! Those crazy Klan folks are up to something. Until we figure out what, you’re to come straight home after school. Stay together, stay out of the woods, and keep to the main road.”
“You got that?” Papa added.
Stella and Jojo nodded solemnly and headed out into the nippy, sparkling morning. But as soon as they were off the porch, Jojo cried out, “Race ya!” and he took off.
“To the apple tree in the Winstons’ yard!” Stella hollered after him, breaking into a run herself.
“Winner gets to be the boss!” Jojo yelled back.
“Well, get ready to lose then!” Stella ran full-out up the dirt road. Laughing and breathless, she touched the tree just seconds before Jojo did, her lunch bucket clunking against the trunk. “Ha-ha! I’m the queen of the world!” she shouted to the sky.
“I almost beat you! You ain’t even princess of Bumblebee,” Jojo told her, laughing as well.
“I am queen and you gotta do what I say,” Stella declared, folding her arms across her chest.
Just then Johnsteve Winston came out of his house, lunch pail dangling from his left hand. He was thick and sturdy, built like a man already.
“She think she’s the queen again?” Johnsteve asked Jojo, his thumb pointing to Stella.
“Yup.”
Stella fixed them both with a steely glare, then said in her best royal voice, “Both of you must go and slay a dragon for me. Begone!”
Johnsteve raised an eyebrow. “First of all, Your Highness, I didn’t lose no race. Second of all, you’re in my yard.”
“And third,” Jojo finished, stretching out his arms, “there ain’t no dragons around here!”
“Well, how about a bear, then?” Stella asked, hands on her hips.
“Maybe a bear,” Johnsteve mused. “But if I caught one, what would you do with it?”
“I’d put it on a leash and take it to church!” Stella said.
“Your sister’s crazy,” Johnsteve said to Jojo.
“Yup.”
Mrs. Winston poked her head out her front door. “Y’all quit that skylarkin’ and get your butts to school ’fore you be late! And mind you keep your eyes and ears sharp!”
“Yes, M’am,” they all replied, and commenced walking again. The town square, and beyond that, their school, were a little more than a mile away.
“So what all went on at the meeting at your house last night?” Johnsteve asked, changing the mood.
“Far as I can tell, all they did was swear to help and protect each other—and us,” Stella said. “I guess it’s good they all got together like that, but . . .” She gave a rock a good, hard kick.
“You musta been pretty scared—seeing real live Klansmen!”
“A little,” Stella admitted. “Nighttime made them even scarier. But the way I figure it, those robes they wear must look pretty stupid in the daytime.”
Randy Bates ambled out of the next house they reached—a small, gray shack, the one on the road most in need of repair. Next door to Randy’s house was the home of Dr. Hawkins and his family, freshly whitewashed, with geraniums still in bloom by the porch. Now that, Stella thought as she did every morning, was like a house in one of her storybooks from school.
Tony ran out the front door and leaped off the porch, sailing right over the geraniums. He pounded Randy on the shoulder. “You’re it!” Then he took off in a blaze of speed, his bare feet churning on the dirt.
Randy and Johnsteve scrambled after him, but they gave up after a minute. Tony Hawkins was just too fast. He circled back around to the group.
“I beat you carrying a lunch pail and a book!” he crowed victoriously. Tony had an uncle in Raleigh who sent him a box of books every few months. Stella envied that.
“Aw, I let you win,” Johnsteve said, giving him a shove.
“Somebody had to stay back and protect Stella and Jojo,” Randy added, shoulder-punching them both.
“I can protect myself, thank you very much!” Stella retorted. But she had to admit, this morning especially, it felt good having others around.
Other classmates joined them as they walked down Riverside Road, a name that made no sense to Stella, because it wasn’t even close to the river! While Randy and Johnsteve and Tony continued to push one another back and forth, the others seemed more subdued, the youngest ones looking downright nervous.
But as they rounded a bend, Stella perked up—they were nearly at Carolyn’s house. Carolyn Malone was Stella’s best friend, and not only that, their birthdays were just three days apart. They shared everything—from Stella’s worries about school, to how to win at hopscotch, to Carolyn’s sorrow when her baby sister, Wilma, had died three months ago. Carolyn ran to meet them, fresh red ribbons tied crisply at the ends of three long braids. That was the only thing they didn’t share. Stella’s thick, coarse hair never seemed to want to grow much past her ears. Carolyn hugged Stella and tossed a cat’s-eye marble at Jojo, who caught it happily.
“How’s your mama?” Stella asked her.
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“Better, I guess. She still moves pretty slow. Ever since Wilma . . . well, it’s like she’s scared to get too happy.”
Stella gave Carolyn’s hand a squeeze. Mama said there was nothing in the world worse than losing a baby.
Helen, Henrietta, Herbert, Hugh, and Hazel—just five of the thirteen Spencer children—straggled out of the last house on the road, the biggest house in all of Bumblebee. It was a true two-floor house, not just a loft upstairs, but a full set of rooms. The Spencers took turns going to school, the rest staying home to help their parents with chores and crops and the babies. The next day, they all switched.
From an upstairs window, Mrs. Spencer called out the same warning she did every morning, “Y’all be good now, ’fore you get knocked to the back side o’ nowhere!” Stella had no idea what that meant, though she thought it was funny. But this morning Mrs. Spencer added, “And be watchful, children. Be watchful.”
And it seemed to Stella that at every house they passed, parents—some already in work boots or maid uniforms—poked their heads out of doors or stood on porch stoops, warning them, “Shake a leg, y’all,” or “Be careful, now.”
At the end of Riverside Road, the group turned left onto Main Street. As if on signal, Stella and her friends slowed, dropping their voices to a whisper, then finally growing silent. They couldn’t help, every single day, staring at the perfect-looking brick building with perfect-looking grass in the front. Mountain View School. The school for white children.
In addition to a track team, Mountain View had a football team and was known around the state for its academic and sports successes. They even had their own library.
Each morning, as they headed to their school, the Mountain View students, most wearing leather shoes and woolen coats against the wind, would sometimes give them a wave as they passed by, sometimes not. But they all knew one another. In a town this small, it was impossible not to.
As the two groups eyed each other, a whoosh of thin, cool air encircled them all. Stella pulled her jacket closer, buttoning up her resentment.